


Break A Sweat

by sheepsinthenight



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Character Study, Gen, GtN Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort if you're evil and you squint, Ianthe POV, Mid-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepsinthenight/pseuds/sheepsinthenight
Summary: Coronabeth has a sad secret. Ianthe's badness level is unusually high for someone of her size. Their arrangement was always going to be tenuous at best.
Relationships: Ianthe Tridentarius & Coronabeth Tridentarius
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	Break A Sweat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gardenvarietyunique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardenvarietyunique/gifts).



> _"The Third princesses worked like musicians who couldn’t help but return for the encore: a spell, retirement, another, another. They knelt side by side, holding hands, and for all that Ianthe had made fun of her sister’s intellect, Corona never broke a sweat."_
> 
> Takes place at the beginning of Act Three. Abigail and Magnus’ bodies are discovered, the necromancers conduct an investigation, and a conversation with Teacher forces everyone to confront the mystery of the facility keys. This is particularly vexing for Naberius, who learns that his key was taken by Ianthe. The scene breaks up:
> 
> _"The Third left with dislocated proximity and the clenched jaws of three people on their way to have an enormous tiff."_

Naberius tried to start their argument immediately.

Ten steps outside the door, he inhaled, puffing up like the preamble to a bird’s threat display. Ianthe’s face twisted in irritation, but it was Corona who said sharply, “Not now, Babs.”

They stalked the halls of Canaan House in silence, haloed in a cloud of diaphanous robes and hairspray. 

The twins went first, long strides carrying them past crumbling staircases, cracked windows, and frescoes equal parts mildew and gold leaf. At some point, Corona reached out to clutch her sister’s hand. Ianthe held it loosely. Their cavalier followed two tense steps behind. His eyes darted to dark corners, and he kept his palm on the basket hilt of his rapier.

Ianthe was lost in thought. The Fifth were dead. She’d known the houses might start killing each other, but everything had happened much quicker than she'd expected. With perfunctory grace, she’d conducted her own necromantic investigations on Abigail and Magnus' corpses, learning little from her attempt. But what had come after had been interesting.

The Seventh had put a stop to the Eighth’s soul siphoning. Most would have seen it differently; Dulcinea’s constitution was meager. Screaming and falling to the ground were, all in all, reasonable responses to Octakiseron's eerie display. But the siphoning appeared to be working, and then Dulcinea’s collapse had activated the loutish protective instincts of her cavalier. 

The paler Princess of Ida arranged her life around being underestimated. She wasn’t about to let someone else play the same trick on her.

However, if the Seventh _had_ killed Magnus and Abigail, Ianthe couldn’t see any motivation for it. What did Dulcinea have to fear from thirty-somethings, more 'chef and historian' than 'cavalier and speaker to the dead' ? She knew they’d been well-liked by the others. Personally, Ianthe had found the pair to be beyond tedious.

The wing set aside for the Third was on the ground floor, at the edge of the sprawling structure. As they neared their rooms, the sound of the sea grew louder. Between cracked, algae-streaked windows, the walls were inset with iridescent tile. Time and age rendered these more oil-slick than opal. Soft electric bulbs glowed to life as the trio passed. The tiles seemed to swirl as their shadows slid over them.

They reached the door to their quarters: an arched, heavy thing of dark wood, twice the twins’ height. Naberius stepped forward to pull it open, but Corona stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. Her other hand was still vicelike around Ianthe's.

“Babs.” Her voice was tight, with a ragged, livewire edge. “My sister and I are going to have a private conversation.”

Their cavalier steamed. “These are my rooms, too, Princess. Where do you expect me to go?”

“I don’t care. Run laps around the ground floor. Go for a swim.” Corona waved her free hand impatiently. “Come back in a quarter hour and try not to get yourself killed.”

It was not a request. His eyes narrowed, then he stalked back into the beautiful ruin.

It was Corona who pulled open the door, finally dropping her sister’s hand. Their rooms were beginning to lose the lemony scent of floor cleaner, replaced with the smells of sword polish, perfume, and pomade. Third habits died hard.

The bedroom was dark. Ianthe set about turning on lamps, and, on instinct, the electric kettle she’d pilfered from the kitchens. No skeletons seemed to have minded. Corona, meanwhile, sat down heavily on the side of the cavalier’s small bed. It was arranged against the footboard of a hulking four-poster with heavy, violet drapes. 

Ianthe simply waited for her sister to begin. There was only one topic to which Naberius Tern was not privy.

Corona didn’t start there, however. First, she burst into tears. Fat droplets spilled from her amethyst eyes. She clenched her fists in the satin sheets and managed a wet, heaving breath. “Who killed them?”

Ianthe leaned against the wall opposite, arms crossed over her chest. She looked nonplussed. “I don’t know.”

“What was Teacher saying?” Corona’s voice was frantic, overwrought, and quickly becoming choked with snot. “A monster in the basement? A revenant?”

Ianthe simply shrugged.

“Will it kill us?” Corona demanded. “Kill _me?_ ”

The electric kettle beeped as the water finished boiling. The sound seemed to surprise the bright twin into silence. Her tears still fell, but she sniffed and wiped her wrist beneath her nose.

Ianthe crossed over to the dresser where the kettle sat. She fixed a mug with hot water and a teabag.

“Don’t be hysterical,” she sighed, as she set the mug in her sister’s hands. “You saw Magnus fight. The Fifth were easy marks. I doubt their murderer poses a threat to us.”

Corona cradled the mug. Steam drifted up and around her face, intermingling with her golden curls. She looked positively miserable as she said, “Why did you have to use necromancy in front of everyone?”

“I wanted to know how they died, obviously.” Ianthe sat beside her on the bed. She leaned back with her elbows locked behind her, while her sister hunched over her tea. “I was interested in what I could learn.”

Corona’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Because you were so _interested,_ the Ninth cavalier has figured us out.” Corona’s tears had soured from fear to anger. “She definitely noticed. I’m conspicuous.”

Ianthe stayed silent. Her sister’s conspicuousness was rather the point.

Corona persisted. “She just kept _staring_ at me. And with those glasses, who knows what she was thinking?”

Ianthe had to bite back a chuckle. Corona looked at her sharply. “This is serious. What are we going to do?”

Ianthe couldn’t contain her mirth any longer. Her laughter was bright and cold, like icicles falling suddenly from a roofline. “She was just looking at your tits, idiot.”

Corona’s beautiful brow furrowed but she made no response. Ianthe continued, “Gideon the Ninth doesn’t know a thing about necromancy. She barely knows about being a cavalier; Babs says she’s got a brawler’s training. I am completely confident that her attention was on your nightgown. Everyone else’s attention was on the two mutilated corpses in the hallway. Remember those?”

Corona’s incredulity sobered into the smugness of someone who was accustomed to attention. Her crying ceased. The haughty way she thrust out her chin was deeply unsightly. “Hmm.” She took a sip of tea. “Of course. Fine.”

Ianthe took the mug from her hands and had a drink before passing it back. “If you were so inclined, you could flirt with her on purpose and probably devastate her. That seems to be the strategy Lady Septimus is pursuing.”

Corona considered this. “I did enjoy watching her fight. She’s an incredible swordswoman. But… a bit creepy. A vow of silence is hard to work with.” She frowned. “Also, I’m fairly certain her necromancer would kill me.”

Finding some way to trip up or distract Harrowhark Nonagesimus was perhaps Ianthe's most pressing concern. The bone witch’s raw ability to manipulate thanergy made her, in Ianthe’s estimation, her only real rival in Canaan House. 

The twins sat in silence for a few moments, passing the mug of tea between them. Outside the dark windows, the waves roared.

“I hate this,” Corona declared finally.

"What, the headache you've given yourself?"

“Well yes. But no." She sighed. "I feel so exposed. Even if you protect us, I also want a sword - ”

Ianthe rolled her eyes. “Babs made the vow to both of us. You carting around a rapier will be a bit more conspicuous than failing to break a blood sweat.”

“So... _useless._ ” Corona sounded frightened, tight, but even more than that: whiny. This magnificent girl, who looked like she’d been carved from gold-shot marble, was whining.

Internally, Ianthe churned through her contempt. The decades of perspiring and bleeding for the both of them. Decades of being her sister’s pale shadow: non-existent, except when thrown into relief by glittering brightness. Time was short until she’d be free of Corona's incessant posturing, her vapid interests, her need for attention: powerful and oh-so pathetic.

But tonight, staring into her tear-stained, blotchy face, Ianthe summoned that indulgent, resolute-in-her-duty feeling she’d had since they were children. If asked, this fond pity was the emotion Ianthe might have called ‘love.’

She wrapped her arm around her sister, and pulled her against her side in an embrace. Corona lay her head on Ianthe's bony shoulder. Pale fingers smoothed down golden hair. 

“Not useless,” Ianthe said softly. She told the simple, temporary truth. “I need you.”

Tears quickly dampened the collar of her nightgown. Neither moved, except for Ianthe’s hand against those bright curls. 

Corona’s breathing softened, and for a moment, Ianthe wondered if she’d fallen asleep like an overtired child. Then her sister spoke up thoughtfully. “When you were investigating the bodies… what were you even doing?” She sniffed. “Eating bits of our cavalier?”

There were quite a few topics to which Coronabeth Tridentarius was not privy. 

Ianthe’s eyes narrowed. “Necromancy," she supplied tersely. 

Corona protested, “If we're keeping this up in front of everyone, I have to know theoretically - ”

“Actually, you don’t.”

The bedroom door slammed open, and a few tiles behind the door cracked. Corona sat up so she wasn’t leaning on her sister. She composed her face into an imperious glare as Ianthe willed her shoulders to relax. 

Naberius strode inside. Then he turned round to close the door somewhat apologetically. Broken wall tile tinkled to the floor. Far from his walk cooling him off, he seemed to be worked into a lather.

“Princess Ianthe!" he began, "You took my key and didn’t tell me.”

Ianthe regarded him. “That’s true.”

“If it’s mine, I should be the one going into the basement - ”

“Tomorrow, we’ll all go into the facility together.”

This handily pulled the wind from his sails. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Even his hair seemed to deflate before them. Corona looked surprised, too, peering at her sister with curious, red-rimmed eyes.

“I wanted to go ahead first to make sure it wasn’t too dangerous.” Ianthe shrugged. “I’ve made sure.” 

“It is _my_ key, though,” he said hotly. “Shouldn’t I hold onto it for safekeeping?”

“Sure.” Ianthe tugged a silver chain out from under her nightdress. She lifted her long, lank hair and pulled the chain off her neck, tossing it to her cavalier. He caught it easily, a look of mild consternation dawning on his face. 

Ianthe raised a white eyebrow. “Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?” It wasn’t really a question; it was was a warning to both Naberius and Corona that their arguments were finished.

As a child of the Third, Naberius recognized a conversational gambit. As a duelist, he knew when to step aside rather than parry a blow. He slid the key into the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he strode over to the dresser and pulled open a drawer to search for his nightshirt. His next comment was a bid meant to placate.

“Can you believe it?” he asked idly, “Cohort Captains trying to pull rank over a Third official.”

Corona laughed, her poise entirely recovered. It was a sound like bells. “Maybe I’ll demand another sparring match and you’ll get a better crack at the Second.”

As they readied themselves for bed, brushing teeth and plaiting hair, they talked inanely about nothing: speculating on what their friends and family were up to back home, coming up with creative insults for the various necromancer-cavalier pairs at Canaan House.

They darkened the lamps in an almost easygoing mood.

“Honestly? What the hell are we doing here?” Naberius mused softly.

 _I’m going to be a lyctor,_ thought Ianthe, _And the Emperor Himself couldn’t stop me._

\--—--

An hour later, Ianthe was sure her sister and her cavalier were asleep.

Corona lay nestled in her arms, curled on her side. Thankfully, her enormous hair was braided, or else Ianthe might have been smothered. Gently, the paler twin disentangled herself and arranged a pillow against Corona’s back. She parted the violet bed curtains and stepped lightly onto the floor. There was only one bed for the Third’s necromancer; since arriving, the twins had shared the four-poster without discussion or complaint. Fortunately, her sister had always been a heavy sleeper. 

Naberius would stir more easily; she knew even stepping close would wake him. A pile of laundry heaped at the foot of his bed. His self-satisfied little jacket sat atop it.

Ianthe plucked her delicate robe from her bedside table. From within a pocket, she drew forth a few fingernails, tiny half-moons of keratin. She chewed one thoughtfully, then rolled the rest between her first two fingers and her thumb. When she opened her hand, a tendril of flesh unfurled toward the sleeping shape of her cavalier. A lattice of keratin built its shape in the air, and then muscle and dermis oozed forth to fill it. It was something like a grotesquely long arm, or like the branch of a skin-covered tree. 

Moving with a precision that would have made her tutors weep, the tendril stretched forward, then plunged softly downwards to the pile of laundry. It dug beneath the jacket and plucked the facility key from within. Then it retreated, folding it on itself in a sudden collapsing of flesh, bringing the key to Ianthe’s waiting hand. She closed her fingers, then put the key and the pinch of fingernails back into her robe pocket. Absently, she wiped pink sweat from her forehead.

She stepped carefully along the perimeter of the room, careful to avoid broken tile, and cracked open the door to slip through. 

Ianthe swept through the halls, wraithlike in her silver nightgown, looking like the onset of an eclipse. She was alert to any sounds, but could detect no one else. After the chaos of the day, even the damned Ninth nun should be asleep.

She lifted the facility hatch, then lowered herself onto the ladder. She wondered with some irritation if the other two would ask her to explain things. Eventually, she might need Naberius in order to actually undertake one of the trials, but for now, spying on the others and her theoretical understanding of the rooms had been entirely sufficient. She was that damn good.

A few light steps took her past the bloodstains left by the Fifth. She reviewed what she'd learned as she strode down the chilly corridor.

_“Step one, preserve the soul, with intellect and memory attached. Step two, analyze it - understand its structure and shape. Step three..."_

Her fingers brushed the access panel, and the newest door opened before her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to gardenvarietyunique for the prompt to write about Ianthe and Coronabeth! I adore the poser assholes of the Third. Can't wait for all my headcanons about Ianthe to be proven wrong in Harrow the Ninth ;)


End file.
